Chapter Text
Satoru Gojo considered himself immune to surprise. When you could see everything, predict everything, calculate probability down to the quantum level with Six Eyes—well, surprises had become an extinct species in his world.
Then she happened.
He'd woken up forty minutes ago in their bedroom—their bedroom, still a novelty that made something warm settle in his chest—and found her side of the bed cold. Not unusual. Insomnia kept her on a schedule that made his own chaotic sleep patterns look regimented. He'd sprawled out, stealing her pillow because it smelled like that vanilla shampoo she used, and contemplated going back to sleep.
Then he heard her in the kitchen.
Now he stood in the doorway, blindfold pushed up to rest in his hair, just... watching.
She was at the stove, completely absorbed in whatever she was making. One of his shirts—the plain black one he'd been looking for yesterday—hung off her shoulder, the collar so oversized it kept slipping down to reveal the thin strap of her bra. Calvin Klein, he noted with amusement. The shirt ended mid-thigh, and beneath it, matching underwear peeked out when she stretched up to reach the cabinet.
She had no idea. No awareness whatsoever of how she looked, barefoot in his kitchen, drowning in his clothes, humming something off-key under her breath.
This was the part that still got him, three months in. She, who couldn't hold eye contact with strangers to save her life, who wore baggy jeans and oversized hoodies in public like armor, who Shoko had genuinely believed was gay, She wears Calvin Klein boxer briefs and vintage Tarantino shirts, Satoru, what was I supposed to think?", she had absolutely zero self-consciousness when it was just them.
She'd shed her layers the same way she shed her careful public composure. In their apartment, she existed in states of undress that would probably mortify her if she stopped to think about it. But she didn't think about it. That was the thing.
Right now she was trying to flip something in the pan—pancakes, he realized, from the smell—with intense concentration. Her tongue poked out slightly between her teeth. The shirt slipped further off her shoulder.
"You're staring," she said without turning around.
Gojo grinned, pushing off the doorframe. "Can't help it. You're wearing my shirt."
"It's comfortable." She finally glanced over her shoulder, and even now, even after three months, her eyes skittered away after barely a second of contact before returning to the stove. Not out of fear—he knew what that looked like—just that fundamental discomfort hardwired into her. "You have like thirty identical black shirts. You won't miss one."
"I miss it terribly. I'm destroyed. Emotionally devastated."
"You're full of shit." But he caught the smile tugging at her lips as she plated the pancakes. "I made too many. Again."
He moved behind her, arms sliding around her waist, chin hooking over her shoulder. She leaned back into him automatically, that easy trust that still felt like winning something. "How long have you been up?"
"Since four." She felt him tense slightly and added quickly, "I wasn't lying awake miserable. I just woke up and couldn't get back to sleep. Read for a while, then got hungry."
Four AM. Five hours ago. The insomnia thing still worried him, but he'd learned not to make a big deal of it. She hated being fussed over.
"You made pancakes at four in the morning?"
"I made these twenty minutes ago. I had cereal at four in the morning." She turned in his arms, finally looking up at him—or rather, looking at his chin. "There's coffee too. I know you probably want something sweet though."
She knew him too well already. He released her to investigate the counter, finding not just coffee but the expensive hot chocolate mix he liked, the one he'd impulse-bought last week. She'd remembered.
"You're perfect," he announced, preparing his drink. "Marry me."
"Ask me again when you're actually awake."
"I am awake. I'm always awake. Sleep is for the weak."
"You were drooling on your pillow twenty minutes ago. I have evidence."
He turned to argue and forgot what he was going to say. She'd hopped up to sit on the counter, legs swinging, his shirt riding up high enough that it was basically just a formality at this point. She was eating pancakes directly from the serving plate with her fingers, no syrup, just plain, with that focused expression she got when she was hungry.
"You know there are forks," he said, amused.
"Forks are for people with patience." She tore off another piece. "These are structurally sound enough to be finger food."
"Is that your professional assessment as a Grade 1 sorcerer?"
"It's my professional assessment as someone who's been awake since four AM and wants pancakes now, not after the fork retrieval mission."
God, he was going to keep her forever.
Gojo moved into the space between her knees, bracketing her in. She didn't tense, didn't pull away, just kept eating her pancakes with that single-minded focus. This close, he could see the faint shadows under her eyes—always there, a permanent feature—and the way her hair was tied up in a messy knot that was losing structural integrity.
"You're staring again," she said around a mouthful of pancake.
"You're sitting on my counter in your underwear eating pancakes with your hands. It's a lot to process."
She finally looked at him properly—well, at the bridge of his nose, which was close enough. "I can move if you need the counter space."
"Don't you dare." He plucked a piece of pancake from her plate, earning an indignant noise. "I'm just wondering when you're going to realize you're basically naked."
She glanced down at herself as if genuinely confused, then shrugged. "I'm wearing clothes."
"That's a very generous interpretation of 'clothes.'"
"It's your shirt."
"Which looks significantly better on you than it ever did on me, for the record."
She rolled her eyes, but he caught the faint flush creeping up her neck. Still not immune to compliments, even if she pretended to be. "You're ridiculous."
"You like that about me."
"I tolerate it about you."
"Same thing."
She pushed another piece of pancake at his mouth in response, clearly trying to shut him up. He bit it from her fingers, before catching her wrist to press a kiss to her palm. Her breath hitched slightly—there it was, that tell that said she wasn't as unaffected as she pretended.
"Shoko still can't believe you're straight," he mentioned casually. "She maintains that the Calvin Klein thing was misleading advertising."
She groaned. "She needs to let that go. I just like their underwear. It's comfortable. Why does everyone read into it?"
"Because you also wore exclusively oversized vintage movie shirts and combat boots. You had a whole aesthetic going."
"I still wear those things."
"Yeah, but now you also wear this—" he tugged at the collar of his shirt, "—which somewhat undercuts the 'not interested in men' vibe you had going."
"I never had that vibe. People just assumed."
"To be fair, you did tell Yuuji that his form was 'structurally inefficient' and spent twenty minutes explaining the biomechanics of cursed energy flow without once looking him in the eye. Very lesbian teacher energy."
She kicked him lightly. "That's not— that's just how I explain things!"
"I know." He caught her ankle, thumb rubbing the bone there. "It's cute."
"Don't call my teaching style cute."
"Everything about you is cute. Your terrible eye contact. The way you eat pancakes like a feral raccoon. How you steal my shirts and don't notice you're walking around in your underwear. The fact that you own seven identical Jurassic Park shirts in different states of wear—"
"Six. One got ruined on that mission in Osaka."
"Right, my mistake. Six Jurassic Park shirts. Totally normal amount."
She was trying not to smile. He could tell by the way she pressed her lips together, by the way her shoulders shook slightly. "You're impossible."
"And you—" he leaned in, voice dropping, "—are sitting in my kitchen at nine AM in Calvin Klein underwear and my shirt, eating pancakes you made in our kitchen, and you still somehow don't realize you're the best thing that's ever happened to me."
That got her. She finally—finally—met his eyes properly, and even though it only lasted two seconds before she had to look away, he saw everything in them. The affection she had trouble verbalizing. The surprise that still lingered when he said things like that, like she couldn't quite believe he meant them.
"Pancakes are getting cold," she mumbled, deflecting in the least subtle way possible.
"Don't care."
"Your hot chocolate is getting cold too."
"Still don't care."
"Satoru—"
He kissed her, swallowing whatever practical objection she was about to make. She tasted like pancakes and strawberry chapstick and home. Her fingers curled into his hair, pulling him closer, and the plate of pancakes was pushed aside and forgotten as she wrapped her legs around his waist.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing harder, her pupils were blown wide and her lips were pink and slightly swollen.
"Okay," she said, slightly dazed. "Maybe the pancakes can wait."
"Best decision you've made all morning."
"Second best. First best was stealing your shirt."
He laughed against her neck, feeling her pulse jump under his lips. Three months in and she could still surprise him. Who wore baggy jeans and beat-up Converse in public, who couldn't hold eye contact with strangers, who Shoko had genuinely thought was a lesbian—who was unselfconscious and comfortable and his in the privacy of their apartment, who wore his clothes like they were meant to be hers.
Yeah. He was definitely keeping her forever.
"For the record," he murmured against her skin, "I like the Calvin Klein thing."
"Shut up, Satoru."
"Make me."
She did.
The pancakes went cold. Neither of them noticed.